


Svaðilfari

by curiositykilled



Category: Norse Religion & Lore, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 16:34:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once again, the Warriors Three and Loki's joke goes terribly awry</p>
            </blockquote>





	Svaðilfari

Loki is drifting.

He doesn't know where he is, but that thought merely floats placidly through his mind. It is better than where he was.

Where was he?

It seems like that should be important, but Loki is unable to mind overmuch. The question slides by with the growing-fainter sound of his own screams.

\-    -    -

It starts as a mere joke, like many of their most ill-fated ventures. They are young, Loki only just old enough to have proven himself beyond the rank of little brother-tag-along (not by much, Sif will grumble, but that is her wont when it comes to the slim, boyish prince), and they are all just a little drunk. Loki joined them in the revelry willingly, which makes Thor wonder cheerily what mischief will have the palace in an uproar come morning, but Loki does not tell and Thor does not ask. It is often just as much to be caught up in the surprise (except for times like his nameday, when Loki turned his tricks against Thor and the God of Thunder woke very much as a goddess).

The challenge - a dare, really, like those made by children - is a common one. Silvertongued already, Loki has proven himself a far more adept seducer than Fandral despite being notably younger, and the older god's only consolation is in attempts to find an unwooable subject. He has yet to succeed, though they were all startled when a very female Loki was invited to Idunn's bed and had to, red-faced, stammer an excuse and apology.

"Ah, that one," Fandral grins a little lop-sidedly, gesturing towards a dark, hunched figure.

Tucked into the most shadowed corner of the tavern, the person is mostly hidden between the dark and their heavy traveling clothes, and it is pointless to try to deduce their gender. Whatever it is, it seems to be permeating the near vicinity with some foul aura: any time a reveller drifts within ten feet of the customer, they immediately recoil and head in the opposite direction.

Loki sniffs disparagingly and stands, skinny body shifting languidly into the slender, lavicious form that keeps even Hogun's gaze from being able to avoid lingering on her hips and breasts. Only Thor seems unaffected, which is due, Sif thinks, entirely to the fool's obsession with battle instead of any apparent interest in women. There is, of course, no bitterness in this comment.

(She will admit relief, however, that she does not have to mind Thor while she keeps Fandral and Hogun from making any unseemly steps, all while forcing herself to think of blonde hair, broad shoulders and not green eyes looking up through a fringe of long black lashes or gowns with low necklines. Like all of them, she has lain with both genders, but her desire has always found its root in men. How a scrawny, argr seidmandr could change that must be through bewitchment)

"You could at least make my night enjoyable," Loki complains in a breath against Fandral's ear.

His throat constricts with a tightness echoed in his leather pants, and the god opens his mouth to offer an alternative that would have Thor breaking every bone in his body. Fandral can't help thinking it would be entirely worth it.

"We all know that prancing around as a woman is all you need for contentment, Loki," Sif snaps.

Glancing sidelong at the tense warrior, Loki lets a smirk pull smugly at her lips. She is well aware of Sif's looks and the reason for her white knuckled grip on her mead. It's merely one of many pleasant externalities of this form.

"Now, my lady, don't be jealous that one of us can enjoy their sex," she purrs, brushing just enough against Sif as she leaves to feel the other woman's breath catch.

"If I were more astute, I may think that to have another meaning," Fandral remarks lazily.

Loki laughs at that, because she has had a little more mead than she really should have, and after negotiating with Thrym on how best to random Freya's hand all day, a drunk's humor is enough for her. Her dark lips spread in a full, honest smile, and her seidr-green eyes narrow against the press of her cheeks. Thor will remember the moment well; it is the last time he sees her smile.

 

\-    -    -

 

It is very rare that he is speechless. He has dealt often enough with his brother and the Three's antics to think himself prepared for any situation, and the childhood years he spent poring over books when he was too young to join Thor have frequently been useful. Now, though, he does not mind so much that he cannot describe where he is. Once, he might have, he thinks, but he is not sure why.

Here is nothing and everything crashing into each other and avoiding one another like Hati and the moon. He is not alone but he knows that if he reaches out through voice or touch or seidr none will respond. It is ataraxia, though some part of him whispers to be afraid. (Or possibly prepared, but he does not know. He is not paying that part of him much attention)

He could stay here forever, he knows, and that is the only thing without a contradiction here. That voice tries to pipe up again, but he smothers it with his inattention. It is not-silent once more and Loki drifts.

 

\-   -   -

 

"I confess, your garb is most advantageous," Loki murmurs, nursing the third goblet Svaðilfari has bought her.

It tastes slightly different than the other two, but she ignores that. The man Fandral had proposed as a hideous suggestion had turned out to be darkly beautiful with gilded irises that whisper of seidr, and she is set to enjoy herself.

"Oh?" He prompts, amused.

"If you wore anything less, I would have a gaggle to fight for your attentions," she answers.

He chuckles, a finger tracing against her ivory palm.

"I would say the same of you, save for a different reason," he remarks.

"Oh?" she echoes.

"You have lovely eyes," he comments casually, "Very rare for an Aesir - green. I can think of only one other."

He laughs in a low, dark way that has warning bells screaming throughout Loki's body. Lowering her goblet to the counter, she keeps her body and expression pleasant even as she prepares to bolt.

"I've been told so before," she agrees, silently sifting through the spells she knows to deal with him.

"Don't bother, darling," he hums.

The air is tense and crackling, saturated with seidr that coils around them like venom-fanged snakes. Loki is more sensitive to seidr than any Aesir and this much should have warned her long before he even entered. A cloaking spell- one even Heimdall's gaze can't penetrate-

"Let's find a more private place, shall we?" Svaðilfari suggests and Loki feels a surprising rush of relief.

Often as she flirts and entices the men and women of this tavern, Loki rarely leaves with them, and Thor will know something is amiss, and even if he doesn't, the city is just beyond the door, and Loki will be able to call on one of the city guards and if nothing else, make up a tale about an attempted assassination against Thor, and no matter how far-fetched the story is, they will believe her because she is Loki Silvertongue and - and - and the city is not there when Svaðilfari opens the door.

It is a dark, hissing forest full of shapes that writhe and twist, and she is doomed. Svaðilfari grants her a dark, twisted smile as the tavern vanishes and he pushes her down into the twig- and dry needle-littered ground. Her gown is torn equally by his hands and her futile struggles to get free. Eventually, his gleaming seidr merely wraps itself around her wrists and neck and pins her.

"Hush now, Loki," he purrs, wrenching her legs apart and pushing his hips forward against her, "I just want to hear you scream for me."

 

\-    -    -

There's a voice out there, somewhere in the not-white white, but he's not sure how badly he wants to hear it. It whispers strange encouragement in equal measure as words meant to rip and rend his soul. That does not matter overmuch; he has heard much the same from himself and his male companions.

It is the age that catches him. The voice is old - older than Yggdrasil's roots and far older than even Odin, and yet, illogically, it is Loki's exact age.

It should make no sense, and it bothers him that it does.

\-   -   -

It isn’t until several hours later that Thor broaches the subject. He is long used to his brother’s flirtatious behavior, but something seemed off about her departure and it has been niggling at the back of his mind all night.

"Do you not think it a bit odd that Loki accompanied that man?" he inquires.

Fandral snorts.

"She is merely enjoying the fruits of her labor, Thor," he sniffs, "I hardly think she'd appreciate an interruption at this point."

The Thunderer's ears redden at this offhand remark, and Hogun finds himself wondering yet again how Loki, the young prince, can be so much more educated than Thor in these matters. It is not for want of teachers.

Sif shakes her head reproachfully and mutters something too low for any ears to catch, but then she stands without any of the grace that Loki had shown earlier in the evening and suggests they return home.

"He'll probably be waiting, laughing at Fandral and the poor man," she points out.

"You wound me," Fandral huffs, standing, "I've a lady to bed."

The blue eyed woman across the tavern smiles coyly at the blonde's approach, and the party is soon only two as Hogun slips away. Sif glances up to Thor in guarded hope that is immediately dashed by the distracted frown barely evident on his face.

"Come. If Loki isn't returned by tomorrow eve, I'll help search for him," she promises before adding, "We all will."

That is enough, and Thor smiles as if her reassurance is enough to prove his worries heedless. They part, and Frigga greets her elder son with a knowing twinkle in her eyes.

\-    -    -

The first time the red and gold comet blazes past is the first time he feels. Wonder and shock burn through him in a magnesium-white flame. It is a mortal, he knows, but how a mere Midgardian could harness such power is beyond him. Ever have they been taught that the humans are weak, easily-awed creatures that will now at the slightest display of thunder, but this - this is work that even seidmandrs would take time to replicate. Whatever this mortal is or will be, it is not a plaything.

Soon after, he becomes familiar with the strange scenes that rocket past just slow enough to leave a burning afterimage in his eyes. He sees himself as mother to a mortal boy with a drunken father and too much self-destructive brilliance. He sees Thor fending off a hulking half-breed on the roof of some strange building. Sif running away to join Brunhild's flock. Himself bedding a burning flame of a mortal, safe in the shadows of a team's ignorance. A battle-weary jotun ordering his newborn child's death. A jotunn who looks just like him holding a woman as she burns too hot to be called fire. Heimdall catching a thin, black-haired boy as he runs for the Bifrost's shattered edge. A childish version of himself fighting against a dark, twisted remnant of his soul. He weeps when the boy gives himself up.

Throughout, there is the ever-present feel of something cold and dark and dead whispering against his neck.

Bringer.

And just as constant, the old-not-old voice begging, screaming, crying.

No. Not this time.

\-   -    -

The ground shakes with his heavy steps when Volstagg first spots the pale, bloody mess, and relief sweeps his heart because the boy is found. Injuries are something they can deal with, so long as they have a body to mend. The relief quickly turns to panic and his steps to caution, though, as he recognizes the long black hair and unmoving, feminine form.

“Loki?” he entreats, begs, as he steps nearer.

From here, he can see the tattered bits of green that three days ago made up an elegant, if revealing, gown. Loki does not stir. Her legs, tucked against her chest, are bruised and blood-smeared and there are raw burns and deep bruising collaring her wrists. When he kneels beside her to check for a pulse, Volstagg finds the same pattern on her neck.

"By the Norns," he mutters, when Thor finds him...

Because he knows that the Thunderer will find whoever violated his brother in such a manner and he cannot find it in himself to hope for any mercy. Whoever he was, the man does not deserve any.

Detaching his cloak and wrapping it about the limp body, he finds it startlingly easy to lift and cradle the prince. They are all well aware of the second prince's slight build - it has often been a source of taunting and consternation for the boy - but Volstagg had never paid much mind to how much thinner Loki is than his other companions. He wonders, as he carries his dread burden home, if Odin knows the frailty of his younger son.

The gilded halls are silent and hollow when Volstagg arrives, and he hesitates. He should, he knows, bring Loki to the healing rooms, but they are such a public place, and while most of Asgard would sooner nap in Fenrir's maw than spread slander about the house of Odin, many are the enemies of the Trickster. An afterthought reminds Volstagg how vehemently Loki has always hated the healing rooms, and his mind is made up. To Frigga's hall they go.

All through the long, winding walk, Loki neither stirs nor makes a noise. Were it not for the faint rabbit's beat against his chest and the even fainter breath against the collar of his armor, Volstagg would shift his walk to lead them to Sal Hvíld where all the noble dead take their last respite before the ashes bear them up to Valhalla. Admittedly, Volstagg is not sure if Loki would have made it to the golden hall, but all this dark rumination is pointless. The boy lives.

They are meer meters from the doors when the queen herself rushes out amidst a rustling cloud if silk and precious gems. The scent of lilies and berrirose lingers about her as gently as newborn leaves about an apple. There are no tears on her cheeks, but her golden skin is beige at the sight of her son. She takes the broken body with the ease of a mother and once-shieldmaiden and sends Volstagg on his way to find the rest of the too-late rescue party.

"Oh, Loki," she whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to the slim girl's brow.

She has Seen what the Norns wish, and though she cannot bring herself to speak of it aloud, her soul screams with the injustice of it. The Queen in her cries at the destruction done to her realm and people - for the children who will not get to live. The mother wails only 'my babies, my sweet, sweet baby boys.' Until now, both halves of her - because they are divided, even if she feels all of Asgard to be her brood and her sons to more often be akin to criminals than her children - have been keening too loudly and disconsolately for her to even sneak in a coherent thought. Now, though, she has her son returned. Broken, yes, but healable. If she is to defy the Norns, then there is much work to be done. First things first, she needs a healer, and there is only one with whom she would entrust Loki's care.

"Send for Sigyn," the queen orders a nearby handmaiden.

She smiles faintly as she feels the pattern in Fate's loom shift.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, there it is. This is basically separate from either Being Frostiron... or Squall Lines, but it could fit into either chronology. Whatever you want.
> 
> Lilies - totem flower of motherhood  
> Berrirose - "choose your destiny," "I'll love you forever"
> 
> Fanfictions mentioned while Loki's drifting:  
> Mama's Boy   
> ...I just bookmarked this one. Crap.  
> Thor: Legends of Asgard (movie)  
> Off the Record  
> Distortions in Time  
> The Limits Cannot Hold  
> Son of the Monster(?)  
> Journey into Mystery (comic)
> 
> ...there are probably some other things that I was going to explain here but I forget and it's time for school :( que triste


End file.
